A Dearth Of Answers
by GRINtelligencer
Summary: Grimmjow on the dome of Las Noches. With a dustpan. A pink one. Also known as: how Grimmjow had an entire conversation with an pile of ashes. And he doesn't like the answers he's getting. A lot of swearing. Spoilers for rescuing Orihime arc.


**A Dearth Of Answers**

**Rating:** T for **a lot of swearing.** You were warned.

**Summery:** Grimmjow on the dome of Las Noches. With a dustpan. A pink one. This is how Grimmjow had an entire conversation with an pile of ashes. And he doesn't like the answers he's getting. A lot of swearing. Spoilers for rescuing Orihime arc.

**Characters/Pairings:** Grimmjow, Ulquiorra, slight Grimmjow/Orihime, in passing Ichigo, Rukia, Kurotsuchi, Aizen, Gin, Tosen, Stark, and Haribel

**Comments:** It was an uphill battle to make this not cheesy and somehow that resulted a much more serious tone than expected. Still, the image of Grimmjow with a dustpan does make me giggle something terrible.

**Spoilers:** Manga chapter 353 onward

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The dustpan was pink plastic. With little white flowers painted on it. Grimmjow would have never been caught dead with the thing in hand, but it had been the only dustpan Orihime had been able to find in the apartment and he hadn't had the forethought to buy one.

The little broom was pink too, to match the pan, with 'love' painted on the handle in a curling, frilly font. With painted hearts around it. Again, it was the only broom Orihime had been able to find.

He should have planned this better. Hell, he should have _planned_. But that kind of crap really wasn't his style, he really didn't think all that much of what it did, never mind plan.

Grimmjow breathed the scent of the desert and soaked in the silver moonlight of Hueco Mundo with his head thrown back so he could see the sickle moon --it was always a sickle moon-- that he remembered. It had been almost a three weeks since he'd been here, three weeks since the virtual implosion of the Arrancar power base and their crushing defeat at the hands of the Shinigami. At least, he'd been told it was crushing. He'd been laid up with wounds from his battle with Kurosaki for most of it.

Getting back here had been a pain in the ass, not that he'd expected it to be easy, considering he's had to go all the way to the Soul Society to gain a permit to enter Hueco Mundo. Technically he could have just opened a gate himself, but with his power levels he'd have set off every damn alarm those Shinigami had put up. The last thing he needed was to have to fight off a dozen stupid Shinigami.

It took so damn long just to get the right official ass and when that Kurotsuchi refused to open a gate with a disdainful sneer on his face he'd been pissed off enough that he gave the nutcase the finger and just ripped open a gateway himself. He _was_ an Espada, after all.

And his newfound patience had limits. Damn Shinigami. At least he'd warned them.

But here he was, back in Hueco Mundo. The silent, cold, empty desert of Hueco Mundo. Not that much had changed since he'd last been there, though he could see the damage on the white walls of Las Noches, the cracks, the black burns, and in a few places entire walls taken down. It must have been some battle. It was shame he'd missed the mayhem.

Still, if he hadn't he'd probably have gotten himself snuffed and the he wouldn't be standing here, on the dome of Las Noches, with a pink dustpan in his hand, now would he?

Now, that was enough with the nostalgia trip, he needed to get this done or that bastard Kurotsuchi might decide to send some Shinigami to see what the hell he was up to. Which was the last thing he needed, diplomacy wasn't his thing and he wasn't supposed to kill Shinigami these days. Turning, he paced across the dome, searching for the telltale rubble from where-- ah! There it was.

It seemed luck was finally on his side and he'd scaled the right side of the dome. Considering the size of the dome it could have taken him hours to find the hole where Ulquiorra had smashed his way out to the open sky had he climbed the wrong side. Damn though, he would have paid good money to have seen Ulquiorra break the dome.

It was just like Orihime had said, the hole, the rubble, the red brown slicks of blood long dried, and--

Would he even still be there? Three weeks was a damn long time. There were windstorms in Hueco Mundo, sudden and vicious, with sand blown by the wind so hard it could strip flesh from bone. But they were few and far between in this season so there was a chance. A small chance…

--and a scatter of ashes.

He breathed out a long breath. Relief, maybe, he wasn't sure and he didn't want to think on it all that much.

Grimmjow squatted by the ashes, setting the dustpan at the edge of the pile with a sigh. "You're fucking pathetic." he told the ashes, flatly as he bent to his task. "I mean, look at you, some great Cuarta Espada you are, a pile of dust on a rooftop. That's just pitiful."

And he must be going crazy, because he could almost see those damned green eyes giving him the same blank _stare_ that he always gave him whenever Grimmjow had shot an insult at him. On any other person, that would be a glare, but on Ulquiorra it was just a stare.

He snorted to himself as he used the ridiculously pink brush to coax more of the dust into the pan, "Shit, don't give me that look clown-face. You're dead; you're not supposed to be able to glare like that. Anyway, You missed a crapload of things, being dead like this. We lost, by the way. I didn't see it, I was bleeding all over in 'Hime's place, but I heard it was a hellova battle."

That would have made Ulquiorra raise an eyebrow at least, he was a precise bastard and he got grumpy with vague descriptions.

"Well, I'm not gonna give you a blow-by-blow, it was complicated. Aizen's dead, Gin's dead, Tosen's dead, that last battle took almost three days, and we lost. A crapload of them died, a crapload of us died, that's about all there was to it."

He had cleared all of dust from where he crouched, he shuffled forward to where more was and kept sweeping, "Damn you make a lot of dust for such a skinny-ass guy."

To that Ulquiorra would have said nothing, but he would have just glared in that blank way he had.

"Maybe it's all in the wings. And what the hell is this bursting into ashes crap? I've never seen an arrancar do that, I wouldn't 've believed 'Hime's story if she hadn't been so damn serious when she told me it. Ashes… huh, always gotta be special, doncha?"

That would make Ulquiorra snort with supreme distain.

"Now of course, everything's all different. Shit, a lot of crap's happened between when you got yourself dusted and now. You missed that last battle o' course, but you missed the treaty too, the surviving arrancar and visored got together with these bigwig Shinigami officials and we got ourselves a nice treaty. Most of the arrancars left Hueco Mundo though, not worth beating off all the weak-ass Hollows to keep Las Noches. Plenty of crappy memories here too. Lot of them went to the Soul Society. Couple, like me, went to the mortal world. They keep us under watch, of course, but they can't keep us out."

He had filled the dustpan. He eyed the ashes left on the roof; there was still a lot of it. With a growl of frustration he yanked off his coat, spreading it on stone and carefully emptying the dustpan onto it. Then he turned back to the ashes and continued to sweep. "Let's see, what else would you wanna know? 'Hime, she's alright, hell, more than alright, I'm, uh, living with her."

Maybe that would actually start an expression of suspire from Ulquiorra, which, on that bastard would have been a slight widening of his eyes, a miniscule opening of the mouth.

"Yeah, you heard that right. We're trying out this relationship thing. It's workin' out pretty nice though. She's an amazing woman… but you knew that. I know you liked her. In your own, err… way."

That would earn him a look of disgust from Ulquiorra. Or course, it would be so miniscule you'd have to know the fellow to see it, but Ulquiorra was the master of tiny subtle expressions. Had been the master.

Whatever.

"Repressed bastard. You had the hots for her, don't even try to deny it."

Ulquiorra's response to that would be (he knew this one for sure because he'd heard this one a few _million_ times before) "I do not argue with idiots." Though he'd probably treat Orihime comment with his trademark silence.

"Yeah, so, that's going alright, um… Kurosaki! He's in the Soul Society, last time I saw him he was busy puking blood all over. Aizen sliced him up almost as good as you did that one time. That Rukia chick says he'll live though. They've got a lot of faith in those healers of theirs." he stared at the again full dustpan in something like disbelief. "Damn, you make a lot of dust. Those must have been some huge-ass wings. Anyway, I've been in the Soul Society a lot, doing the follow up negotiation. Yeah, I know, _me_ negotiating. I'm horrible at it."

"Then why not choose someone else? Someone _competent_." Ulquiorra would say that in that driest tone possible.

"Good question." he started sweeping again. "I've gotta do it on account of the fact that I'm the only Espada left. The other arrancar won't listen to anybody else. Didja hear that? Me the only Espada. Even Stark and Haribel kicked it. I'm all that's left. Everybody else is dead. Including you." glumly he scraped some more ash into the pan.

"Everyone is… dead?"

"Yeah, everyone. All the Espada. All except…"

And then he was angry, so furious his hands clenched on pan and brush, hard enough to crack the handles, the sudden fury bitter and metallic tasting. He had no idea where the rage came from, why it felt so much frustration, all he knew was the next moment he was shouting at the empty sky of Hueco Mundo, "You fucking idiot!" he threw the brush and pan as hard as he could, scattering ash again as they skittered away down the side of the dome. "How the _hell_ could you let yourself get killed by that kid? _How? _You weren't supposed to die in such a dumbass way! You supposed… you were supposed to… fight me. We… were gonna have the end-all-be-all of fights… and we were gonna finally find out who's stronger then… the loser'd take the winner down with him… that's how it was supposed to be. But you went got yourself offed. So what am I supposed to do? What _fuck_ am I supposed to do?"

Panting he watched the ashes settle back to earth, silently. They gave him no answer.

Of course they didn't, there were a pile fucking of dust.

In truth, he hadn't really come here out of kindness. He wasn't a kind person. He was an arrancar. They really didn't do 'nice' very well. Gathering up a rival's remains was not something in his nature. He hadn't come for Orihime, or even for respect. He'd come because Ulquiorra had always seemed to know the answers, that bastard had always seemed to know what he was doing and where he was going.

He'd felt like he need a little of that.

But he had no idea what Ulquiorra would have said to that outburst. What with him being dead he's never know. There was no way to sift through the ashes and revive the person they had once been. No way to bring back the Cuarta Espada, no matter how much the Sexta yelled at the fragmented bits.

And as for Ulquiorra, he wouldn't have given a crap what happened to what was left of him, he knew what he'd say: "I have no use for it anymore, what care do I have for this body?"

"Damnit, this is stupid." Grimmjow spun around and kicked his jacket, sending the ashes on it billowing off into the air. Then he reached down and grabbed the jacket, picking it up, and shaking it. "I don't need your crap," he muttered to the last clinging particles as he brushed them off. "I'll figure out what to do myself." He threw his coat back on and began to walk to the edge of the dome. "I'll make it up as I go."

"Good. Now go back to the woman. She's alone."

Grimmjow froze.

Slowly he turned back, a terrible hope building heavy in his stomach. Maybe, just maybe-- and it was possible, wasn't it? The guy could regenerate from almost nothing-- and maybe… maybe…

There he was, dark hair and pale skin and green eyes and blank face and tear markings and the hands buried in his pockets and that slight hint of mocking in the eyes and-- and--

Grimmjow blinked.

An empty expanse of stone dome, interrupted only by a hole and a scattering of ashes.

The ashes stirred as a breeze blew through them. A windstorm was coming.

"Well." he said. "Fine then," and he stuffed his hands in his own pockets and began the trek to were he could cross back over to the mortal world.

The wind was picking up, plucking at his jacket and rumpling his hair. He leaned against it, feeling the harsh prickle of sand against his skin.

Then he remembered. "Damn. Have to remember to buy 'Hime another dustpan."

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end.


End file.
